Luminescence
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A Caryl fic inspired by and starting just before the events of 7x10. I write with rotating POV between Carol and Daryl, and attempt to keep all characters in canon as much as possible. This story is a reflection on the light, the life force in all of us, and what happens when Carol attempts to darken hers by retreating from the world and all she loves. It simply cannot work.
1. Switchboard

Switchboard

One thing she had a lot of now was time. At first, she held it close around her, letting it warm her and protect her from everything that had happened, was happening. But she noticed as the days became weeks, it weighed heavily on her, pushing her down.

And now, she was…restless.

She roamed the woods, scavenging and hunting for food. She prowled the wooden box of the cabin, rummaging into every cranny and crevice until she knew her little home as well as she knew her own body. She began reading the terrible romance novels stocked on the small shelves, happy to realize that whole large chunks of time had fallen away whilst lost in the smutty pages.

She had meant what she had written in her note to Tobin, her convenient lover.

She had meant what she told Morgan, her unlikely ally.

She had meant what she said to Ezekiel, with his exotic fairytale Kingdom and pet tiger and striking eyes.

Hadn't she?

Why, then, despite her best intentions, did her stomach leap when she heard someone approaching the cabin? Even when it was some unknown lackey of the King's? Why did she care? What was it to her? She was like the cabin: isolated, forgotten, simplified and husked out.

Except she wasn't. And like the cabin, she held secrets, like the enticingly erotic pages of a trashy romance novel. Unlike the cabin, which didn't have electricity, Carol's lights were flicking themselves back on, one by one. She seemed unable to stop it, her internal switchboard.

Two of the switches had been destroyed: her marriage with Ed, and the woman she had been because of him, and herself. She had ripped those circuits out of her internal wall, smashing them the way she had pummeled Ed's lifeless skull, pieces flying in every direction. The other was Sophia, faded and gone, preserved only in her mother's heart. No matter what she did or didn't do, that switch was never lighting up again.

And if you had said to her even five years ago, that she HAD any other lights, she would have scoffed. She would have said any internal illumination came from her marriage and her daughter. There WAS no light of her own.

And she had been wrong about that. Hadn't she?

There were switches and wires inside of her she didn't even know existed. Some shone brighter than others. Her friendships with Rick, Maggie, Glenn, Michonne. _Flick, flick, flick, flick._ Her latent intelligence, waiting all of those years, dormant and muffled, when Ed reigned supreme. _Flash._ Her ability to not just survive, but _thrive,_ in this supposedly dying world. _Twinkle._ Even sexual desire, awoken by someone else, fulfilled, briefly, by Tobin's warm body next to her, on top of her. _Luster._ And him. The man whose own light seemed to flicker and blaze with the same rhythm as hers, shining with a complicated yet utterly familiar luminescence, because it was her own: _Daryl._ _BOOM._

She was awash with light she hadn't realized existed. And every time she destroyed another living person, she felt the whole works flicker inside of her, ready to short circuit. She had never, truly, been this alive except, perhaps, in an almost-forgotten childhood. Grass was so green. The sky was so blue. And the blood, ah so much of it, was so very red.

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. She should have known she couldn't hack it for long with all of her lights blazing. After Denise's death, she slowly started shutting the whole thing down. Taking an internal hand and moving everything from "on" to "off".

And it was working, right? I mean…it HAD worked, right? Turning everything off yourself was better than some monster, living or dead, coming in and smashing the shit out of it, leaving you in the dark.

Right?

She had made the best decision, really. It was difficult, but she had to hold steady. She turned a page in her book and sighed. This was better, in the end. A life in the simple dimness of the cabin, in the simple dimness of her soul.

And then: a knock on the door.

Lights on.


	2. Ghosts

At first, with the Saviors:

It had been dark, so dark, inside and outside of him. A thick blackness had engulfed him, spreading over him with each blow to Glenn's head. There had only been dark and dirt and blood and brains. When the gloom began to clear, inside of him, he realized the darkness was actual.

Four tight walls closed in on him. He was a man in a box, discarded and forgotten. Alone. His spent, heart-sick mind attempted to escape with sleep, but the bastards wouldn't let him. He would be so close, the gauzy, dark gray haze of exhaustion and sadness falling over him like a welcome blanket, when that GODDAM song would jolt him back to reality, making his whole body blaze with fear and terror.

But then something started to happen. The darkness fragmented, and he realized he wasn't alone in his prison cell. In fact, it was stuffed to the brim with ghosts.

"MOTHER DICK!" rang out, in Abraham's husky tones, each time Daryl was startled awake. He swore he could see the giant of a man, crouch in the corner, his red hair gleaming in the dimness, giving the double bird to Daryl's captors.

Then, it was Beth's sweet voice and giant blue eyes that swam towards him, trying to blot out the sound and fury hurled at him. Her slight form retreated each time the doors swung open with a fresh humiliation, with pain. The girl he couldn't save. The sunshine the night of this world had blotted out.

Suddenly, someone alive, someone kind: Sherry. With her heart-shaped face and sad eyes, urging him into action, before it got any worse.

A note, slipped under the door of his cell. He picked it up, felt the smoothness of the white paper. It was real.

And, he swore, so was Glenn's voice, encouraging and insistent at his ear: "Daryl. Fucking RUN, man."

He did. Heartbroken and relieved to leave those ghosts behind in the darkness. As if he really every could.

oooOOOooo

And then, in the Kingdom:

Everything inside of him lifted, then shifted, when Richard finally spoke.

"Carol. Her name is Carol."

The man said other things, lots of other dangerous, frightening things. But these were the words that mattered. Daryl was still getting used to the sun on his skin, to walking, unimpeded by chains, after days locked away in the bowels of the Saviors' compound. Now the sun suddenly seemed much brighter, almost _too_ bright, and he squinted against it as he threatened the other man. Shades of his dead friends flickered at the corners of his vision, glimmering in the sunshine.

"I will kill you."

He meant it, too. But now, he had to go. The sun was shining, and something was kindling in stomach. Something that felt a lot like hope.

oooOOOooo

At last, at the cabin:

He waited until Ezekiel and his entourage was out of sight, down the road. He had crouched in the tall grass, his heart bursting in his chest when she appeared at the door and surveyed the King and his group, holding on to the frame and giving not an inch to the party, in her expression or body. She looked a little flinty, a little remote, out of reach. She rolled her eyes dismissively when the big guy handed her a Tupperware container full of food, but Daryl saw it, a flash: a slight softening of her face. She was still in there, past the cold mask she was wearing: _his_ Carol.

Once the group from the Kingdom was merely a blur on the horizon, he crept towards the cottage. He could feel the blood singing in every vein, blazing through every nerve. A small gust of wind blew his hair across his forehead; he brushed it back, looking skyward. Clouds swam lazily on the breeze. He took a deep breath, knocked.

And, then, there she was, framed in the doorway, a look of annoyance on her face, like she was about to tell someone off. Her mouth fell open, ready to speak. The words fell dead on the ground, and she just stood there in front of him gasping for air, her eyes the same faded almost-blue of her shirt.

He shifted a little, hiked up his rucksack on his shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to scoop her up, but he didn't know how. Apparently, he wasn't entirely free from his own chains yet, even after all this time. All he knew was this: her much-loved face, as it crumbled into softness and tears, was the best thing he'd ever seen.

Then she moved towards him, out of the dimness of the cabin and into the sunlight, and her arms were around his neck, her fingers warm and dry and strong, working in his dirty hair, sending pleasant tendrils of shivers down his spine. And his chin was on her shoulder, His arms around her middle, feeling the reality of her. The tears clouded his eyes, and the world split into a soft, bright prism.

For now, in this moment, the light was forgiving.


	3. Cobbler by Firelight

_Our lies, our favorite ones that we tell over and over, are so very, very fragile_ , she thinks, as she takes their supper dishes to the small wash basin, stopping to rest her hand on his shoulder. The tendons and muscles there contract under his shirt, and then he sighs. He does not look at her; she does not need him to. His hand hovers for a moment, lands on top of her, brushes there, like a butterfly alighting on a flower.

She dumps the dishes, another tiny acknowledgement of the utter disarray that has entered this cabin and her heart in the past few hours. Nearly all of her carefully-constructed order and solitude collapsed when she saw him standing there in her doorway.

The comfort of him here smeared all of her boundaries (well, aside from the ones they had, tacitly, agreed upon with each other. For now, at least). As she set about getting dinner on the fire and lighting her multitude of candles, she was glad for the dwindling daylight. Everything was crumbling inside of her.

They spoke little. They never really _had_ to. They both still had their hidey-holes and tiny internal fortresses, but they had, nearly effortlessly, mapped each other's souls over the past few years. Maybe because so many of the twists and turns on the topography of each of their lives were the same bends and double-backs, to pain, grief, and bad choices. To unexpected friendship. To love, in its own odd, strangely-shaped beauty, a beauty they understood, those neither of them were quite ready for it.

She could not seem to stop weeping. She surveyed her messy sink, wiped at her eyes. The relief that had shook her, when he told her everyone was okay. Everyone from _home._ Not this place, this outpost of her life. Though with him here, it felt more like a place to stay, rather than to retreat to.

"Hey," the pleasant gravel of his voice. "You okay?" She heard him rise from the table, pushing his chair back with a scrape.

"Yeah, okay," she turned, not bothering to hide her tear. "I…am just happy. Happy everyone's okay. Our people. You." She gazed across the room at him and wondered. How long would he stay? How long did she _want_ him to?

He sauntered over and her heart sped up. He stopped just short of her, grabbing a container off the sideboard.

"What's this?" He asked. She could see the shadow of a grin turning up one side of his mouth.

She snorted a little, wiping her face dry. "Cobbler. From the King." She laughed out loud, a real laugh this time. He didn't join her, but his face got soft.

"You gonna share, or what?"

"You better grab two spoons, while you're at it."

oooOOOooo

They ate the whole damned thing, sitting on the couch. The container resting on their adjacent knees, spooning sugary berries and crumbs and cinnamon into their mouths as the firelight danced in front of them.

"My mama made cobbler every Sunday in the summers," she said, savoring a bite.

"My mama…didn't make cobbler," he replied. She turned to him, and was glad to see a fleeting grin, rather than sorrow at the utter disappointment his mother had been.

"I guess not," she sighed. "But the cobbler my mama made wasn't for us. It was for her favorite preacher. That man was skinny as a beanpole, mean as a weasel in a bag, and could tuck away sweets like nobody's business. Ate my cobbler every goddamn Sunday after services."

" _Your_ cobbler?" He took another bite. She noticed he had blueberries on his lips. She tried to ignore them. "Weren't never for _you_ , you said."

"Sass," she grabbed the container from him, held it away, over her head. "In _any_ case, THIS cobbler is mine, and I am not obliged to share."

"That ain't right," he grunted, pointing his empty spoon at her face. "Said you would."

She shrugged extravagantly. "Changed my mind." She made to finish the last bit in one giant mouthful.

He looked completely disinterested. But as she went to scoop it from the container, he made a grab for it. She was suddenly, viscerally aware of every place their bodies were touching. Which…was a lot of places. The cobbler seemed distinctly unimportant right now.

He seemed to notice too. His breathing changed ever-so-slightly. Her heart was pounding. She smelled cinnamon and sweat and wood smoke. They were in unmapped territory, in this moment. Could she move forward, onto an unknown path? Did she want to? Could her heart bear it?

He was waiting, not retreating. Waiting for her, to move forward, or not. She contemplated removing the blueberries on his lips with her fingers, with her own mouth. He wouldn't stop her. No. She was sure of it. He wouldn't stop her, would in fact welcome it. A sign post, a way to move forward on the road with each other. Out of this cabin. He arrived alone, but they would leave together. Go _home._ It was all there, right in front of her.

In a flash, she imagined those wounded, hopeful eyes with their light extinguished. Those lips, blue not with fruit, but in death. And she sighed, almost whimpered. Gained control of herself, of them. Of what could and couldn't happen tonight.

"Okay, you can have it," she proffered the nearly-empty container at him.

His face relaxed, but there was a glimmer of disappointment there too. "We'll share it."

They each ate their last half-bites of cobbler, their spoons not quite full. It was sweet, but it wasn't enough. Not quite. But it would have to do, for now.


	4. The Lady & the Tiger

**A/N: Dear readers, thank you for your reviews and comments. It's been a looooong time since I've written Caryl fic, and I am having a great time with this. My previous readers will know I like to write alternating POVs between the two per chapter, but this chapter is also Carol's. I also try to write in canon and within the framework of what the show provides, especially if the show is airing concurrently with my fic. Doesn't look like there's any of either of these guys in the next ep, so I need to stretch what we got from 7x10 for a few more chapters.**

 **I also make an allusion to the classic tale of "The Lady & the Tiger" for reasons that should be obvious. It so happens I wrote a very short Caryl fic awhile back based on that story, having no idea that Sheva existed in TWD world. Some of the sentiments from that earlier ff are echoed here. **

**Thanks for being here with me. ~ CeeCee**

The cobbler had been set aside, along with other ways to end the evening, but neither of them made a move to leave the couch. She shifted a little, settled her head against his shoulder, enjoying the tensing, then relaxing of his muscles there again. She felt him sigh, sink a little deeper into his seat.

She kept thinking of her friends back home, in Alexandria. Him being here allowed her to contemplate them fully again. For tonight, at least, she had permission from herself to really care.

"How's Maggie feeling?"

"What?" He barked the word out, startling her. She lifted her head and gazed at him. He seemed…worried. Angry, almost.

"How is she feeling? Any morning sickness?" She pressed on. He didn't look at her.

"Oh yeah. The baby. She's doin' good, I guess. Strong," the words were comforting, but there was something else there…

"What is it, Daryl?" Did she really want to know?

"Well, guess it's no big deal anymore. She was feelin' poorly, but they fixed her up just fine. She's good now. Fine. Strong," he repeated, and now he did look at her, and his words felt true to her. Mostly because she desperately wanted them to be.

"I'm glad. It can be a little scary, at first. The feeling of growing another person inside of you." She settled back against him again.

But he was restless now, anxious. Taken out of the calm they had created here, for the evening, at least.

"You said Ezekiel's okay, yeah?" It seemed important to him. He had already asked earlier in the evening.

"Yeah…I think so. Don't know him too well, but he's a good leader. Even if his methods are…unconventional," she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice.

"The goddamn _tiger,_ " he replied, his mouth twitching.

She laughed a little, leaned back to look at him better. "Admit it, you love the tiger."

"Tigers are fuckin' cool," he shrugged.

Now she burst into a peal of giggles. She couldn't help herself.

"Oh, knock it off," he scoffed.

"No, no, you're right…tigers _are_ fucking cool," she paused, thought about it. "He's smart, Ezekiel. He was just a regular guy before all of this, a zookeeper." Daryl's eyebrows went up, he nodded. "He saved that animal. Guess she knows it. And who else but a king has a tiger for a pet?" The giggles bubbled up again, she couldn't stop them. The perfection and ridiculousness of it all were too delicious.

"Yeah, alright," he leaned back again, facing towards her. He seemed calmer. "A little bit of bullshit never hurt no one. And he's managin' the Saviors okay, too." Another shadow passed over his face, but she chose to ignore it. It could have been the dwindling firelight, in any case.

"The tiger's for protection, for control. Maybe for show. But also…maybe because tigers are easier than people," she started. "There's this story, I remember it from high school. 'The Lady & the Tiger'. This warrior, he falls in love with a barbarian princess. But, you know, he's not good enough for her, not royal. Her dad, the king, finds out. He's not happy about it. But, because the warrior is a celebrated hero or something, he doesn't just automatically kill him for messin' with his daughter. He places the guy in an arena, with a door on either side of him, with everyone in the kingdom watching. The warrior gets to choose his own fate; he gets to pick which door he wants to go through. Behind one is a hungry tiger, ready to tear him to pieces. Behind the other, is a young woman, one of the princess' handmaidens, actually, waiting to be his bride. Before he chooses, the guy looks at the princess. She nods to him, letting him know he should go through the door on the right. So he does."

"And?"

"That's it, that's where the story ends," she shrugged. "Guess the writer wanted you to decide for yourself what happened. Did the princess want him to live a happy life with a woman that wasn't her? Or did she want him to die since _she_ couldn't have him? There _were_ barbarians, remember." She smiled at him, but he wasn't having it.

"That's stupid," he responded flatly.

"Mr. Devereux from 9th grade lit would disagree with you," she retorted.

"It is though," he insisted. He was fired up. She liked it. "The princess has power. She coulda figured somethin' else out. Leave 'im to go with another woman, or be mauled by a tiger? Nah. That's bullshit right there."

"You might be missing the point of the story."

"Bullshit point, then. What is she gonna _do_ about it? You tryin' to tell me, if it were you, you'd do the same thing?" He was looking at her with such earnestness, as if he already knew the answer.

But did _she_?

"I…I don't honestly know. I never thought about it," she paused, looked at her hands. Looked back up at him. He was waiting. "I do know…I know that I wouldn't want someone I loved to die. Because of me. But I don't know if that means I would have made the same choice as the princess or not." The tears were coming again, she couldn't help it.

"Nah," he replied, stood up, looked down at her. "You're no princess." And then he smiled at her for the first time that evening. A few more switches flicked on inside of her.

"Asshole." She chuckled, wiped her tears away. "I most certainly am not." She stood and joined him.

"I…gotta go," he sounded like he wasn't sure.

"I guess you do", she replied. "Where…where are you going?" _And when will you be back?_

"Back to the Kingdom tonight, I guess. Then…Alexandria," he trailed off. She knew he had almost said "home."

"Yes. Of course," she knew he would never mention her, their time here. She didn't have to ask him, or tell him not to.

They were at the door. He was going to leave, and she didn't know if she wanted to stop him, or not. It had been simpler before he came. It would be simpler when he left. Perhaps.

He shouldered his gear, his new bow. He was looking everywhere but at her. She could see that the stain of blueberries was gone from his mouth now.

She moved forward thinking incoherently _just a little, a little, please,_ and pressed her cheek against his briefly, slid her hand along his chin. Then moved back as if she had never been there. She opened the door and he hurried down the stairs into the darkened yard. _That's all I get_. _That's it._ She stood in the doorway as he moved away. She wouldn't touch him again for a very long time.

And then. He turned on his heel and bolted back up the stairs, grabbing her, lifting her nearly off of her feet. Every switch was thrown on inside of her and she gripped him tightly, thinking, but not saying, _stay, stay, stay, stay, stay, stay…_

"You take care of yerself," his breath in her ear, his voice catching. And then he did let go, leaving warm places on her torso where his hand and arm had been. Then he was gone, disappearing into the night.

She started to retreat back into the cabin. Then waited, held her breath. If he came back, if he _stayed…_

But the night was now fully silent. He was gone.

She was alone, again. Thankfully. Disappointingly. Safely.

She closed the door.


	5. Starlight

_"Guess we're all holdin' on to somethin'."_

The memory of the silky, surprising feeling of the tiger's fur against the roughness of his calloused palm floated through his mind. He tossed and turned on the basic but comfortable pallet in the small room he had been led to by one of King Ezekiel's men a few hours ago. Comfortable, yeah, but he couldn't sleep worth a damn.

He sat up, wiped a hand across his bleary eyes. No point, really, in pretendin' to rest anymore. Morgan, damn him, had been right, of course: he had been holdin' on to something alright. To time, to the time before Carol would know what happened to Abraham, and worse, to Glenn, and learn of his culpability in their friend's death. He closed his eyes, swayed on the edge of the small bed.

Hear whisper, like a puff of air:

 _Get it DONE Daryl. Do it. Take 'em all out. For me. For Abraham. For Denise. For Maggie. For Carol. For my kid Daryl. Do it for my fucking kid._

And then he had to open his eyes, because all he could see was Glenn's destroyed face, his body slumped as the dust grew dark with his blood.

He thought of Carol, her beloved, tear-streaked face in the firelight of the cabin, practically _begging_ him to lie to her. She believed him, because she _wanted_ to believe him. And in that place, that secret, special place, with just the two of them, it was almost possible to believe the lie himself. Or, at least, believe his reasons for telling the lie.

But now he knows the truth: like Morgan said, they were all holding on to something. Some _things._ More than one. It was about holding on to a place - in himself, in Carol – where things where safe. Where Glenn's baby would grow up with his father. Where what Carol wanted, to hold onto an essential part of who she was, or who she _thought_ she was if she didn't kill. Who she could remain.

But. BUT.

"Doesn't fuckin' work that way," he muttered out loud, startling himself a little. "Ah, shit." He rubbed his tired eyes again, and got up. Stretched, groaned, as every joint pinged and popped. Grabbed his gear and headed outside. Back to the Hilltop, back to his people. To Carol's people. To their family.

ooooOOOOoooo

The wouldn't let him leave, Ezekiel's guards. _Still well far from moring,_ they said. _Stay put,_ they said. His jaw ground together in frustration, but he knew they needed these people. And these people weren't convinced of anything. Yes.

"A'right. Fine. 'Kay if I walk the main drag? Need to stretch my legs."

They glanced at each other, shrugged, nodded. He walked away, glancing perfunctorily at the quiet mostly darkened buildings on either side of him. He stopped at a large garden plot, running his hands gently over the largest spray of green. Corn, probably. Or wheat. He didn't know shit about plants.

The leaves tickled his palm, and he thought again of the velvet touch of the tiger's fur.

He thought of the lady in the woods, _his_ lady, by all rights that weren't typical, and the way her fingers felt on his neck, the way her thigh felt pressed against his.

How there was a moement, sitting together, when so much more of their bodies were pressed together. And it felt different, this touching that seemed equal and right. Not one drowning person clutching another, as they had when she opened the door of the cabin, or when they had reunited outside Terminus, or, Christ, when he had grasped her collapsed body in Hershel's dusty farmyard as Sophia stumbled from the barn. This was something they were doing together. They were moving slowly towards something, probably had been for ages. He only recently realized it, he guessed, but it was like those crazy pictures that you thought were just a buncha colored dots, and then suddenly:

 _A dolphin. A smiling face. A blooming flower._

And sitting there, laughing over cobbler and protected, momentarily, from harsh reality, something that he had felt for a while, something his heart could almost sense, came into clear focus. All of the dots coalesced. The dots were them. _A flower._ They always had been.

Something on her face at that moment told him that she knew. She had known longer than he had, which didn't surprised him, really. He had never been good at the love thing. Didn't really know how, until recently. Didn't understand that it could be free of shame and self-loathing, until the world went to shit, permanently.

And he didn't know what to do, then, sitting there with all the lights on inside of him, in that dim, fire-lit cabin. He wanted _her_ to know what to do, but was that fair? Hell if he know. All he didn't know was that he didn't really want to leave, but he had to. To make up for all of the lost. But mostly for who was next. Judith. That tiny spark of life growing in Maggie's belly.

He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, holding back the tears that gathered there. Gazed up at the stars in the still-dark sky.

"They're the same, no matter what."

Daryl let out a strangled sound, swung out a fist, which slapped against a waiting palm. Morgan's.

"Hey man, sorry about that. I thought you heard me coming. I wasn't quiet about it."

"Yeah, okay," Daryl's heart was still racing. He looked back up at the sky.

"Like I said, they don't change, all those stars," Morgan paused. "Well, they don't change fast enough to matter to us." He laughed.

Daryl spotted a constellation he recognized, thought of twinkling dots slowly coming together, forming a picture. What was always there. Finally shifted his gaze to Morgan.

"She'll figured it out. Carol. When she's ready. That I was lyin'. She'll come. She'll fight. She won't be able to choose anythin' else. It's in her."

"Can't say I disagree with you. Can't say I like the idea of it, either."

"Don't matter," Daryl responded. "Don't matter if we like it or not. Some things have to happen. And they will."


	6. Trick of the Light

At the cabin:

It felt all wrong after he left. He had been there so briefly, but somehow, he had changed it. The walls closed in on her, the quiet buzzed in her ear like a dangerous insect, the delightful smuttiness of _Denim Dreams_ no longer was a welcome escape. None of the food she had, whether her own creations or the offerings of the king, tasted as good as the cobbler they had shared.

She prowled around like a tiger in a cage, going back to the moment, right before he left, where he scooped her up, dropped her, disappeared. How she waited, hoping…

And, a few nights in, after she finally drifted off to sleep:

 _…his face in the flickering firelight. She's thinking of Maggie, the baby growing inside of her. She asks him._

 _He looks startled, worried. She brushes it aside, because, in that moment, she doesn't want to know. Anything. How does she make a choice between her soul and her heart? Her peace and her family?_

 _He tells her Maggie had a scare, that there was something with the baby, but it's all okay now. Everything is fine…totally fine. She notices again the blueberries on his mouth, except…_

 _He opens his mouth and blood and viscera pour out. He lifts his hands, reaches for her, desperately, he is covered in gore and death…_

She woke up, gasping. Someone was whimpering. And realized _she_ was the one crying in her sleep. Lit a smoke, relishing and hating it all at once. Trying to calm her vibrating hands.

Waited until sunrise. Headed to The Kingdom.

Then, with Morgan:

She thought she was ready. She was wrong. Morgan, he's a good man, and he tried to be fair:

"What was said between you and Daryl, is between you and Daryl," he looked at her, the unspoken answers in his eyes. The _truth._ And she wanted to run from his calm, kind, worried gaze, and reasonable voice. This good man, who is her friend, unexpectedly.

"Let's go to Alexandria. I can take you there, right now," he urged her to choose: peace, or her family. Her people. _Daryl._

And even though she pushed her way in here, past walkers, past guards, she backed away, away, away, from the truth that filled that room and Morgan's eyes. The truth that is waiting in Alexandria, that is waiting with Daryl…and whomever is left. Because some of them are gone. She knew that now.

And she retreated as quickly as she pushed in. Blowing past Ezekiel's men, young Benjamin. Needing the safe space of her cabin once again.

She returned, shuddered, slammed the door.

It wasn't the same. Not anymore.

And again, at the cabin:

Morgan, Ezekiel, a dying, bleeding boy whom she had rebuffed mere hours earlier, on her kitchen table. The stain will never wash away.

Her hands were steady, her heart was sure. She did her best. It wasn't enough. Not nearly.

And she saw Morgan cracking, breaking. She had only just repaired the same fault lines in herself. She knew how they felt. But when they are gone, all she is left with is a crimson-smeared tabletop and a throbbing heart.

And suddenly, the pain felt _right._ It reminded her that she was alive.

Morgan, once more:

He was splattered with Richard's blood and blazing with inner fire. The good man was still there, but he was lost in the fire of the fury and pain. He came bearing the truth. The awful, inescapable truth.

Good man that he was, though, he still asked:

"Want to know what happened in Alexandria?"

And she felt her throbbing heart. And she nodded, bracing for the pain.

But nothing, _nothing_ could prepare her for the sound of Glenn's name. A knife twisted inside of her, fills her with sorrow and shame in equal measure. She missed saying goodbye.

And then Morgan was going, and she _had_ to stop him. Redeem herself. She understood now. The pain was inevitable. So was loving people. Nothing could protect her from it, forever.

"Go…and don't go," she told him. And he listened. Thankfully.

And she walked towards The Kingdom, to get them ready. To get the King ready. She couldn't face Alexandria, Maggie, Rick, _Daryl_ …quite yet. But it was time.

And she was finally headed in the right direction.


End file.
